  Who made those naked footprints in the sand? For hours afterward the boys puzzled over it, but could come to no satisfactory conclusion. Indians, as they well knew, seldom went barefoot. If, on the other hand, the tracks had been made by a white man, who was he and from whence had he come? Though they searched long and diligently for the remains of a campfire or other evidences of the stranger’s presence, none was to be found. The tracks could be followed for a distance of nearly a quarter of a mile along the shore, after which they turned away from the river and became lost in the thick moss that carpeted the woods. Nor could they pick up the tracks again. Toma, whom nature and training had specially fitted for this kind of work, was forced to admit, finally, that even he was baffled. Given a little more time, he believed that he could find other imprints, but inasmuch as Sandy and Dick chafed at the delay already caused by the mysterious, barefoot stranger, he decided to concur with popular sentiment and try to think no more about it. But it was not thus to be dismissed so lightly. The passing of time seemed only to add fresh interest to the puzzle. During the next two days it was the popular topic of discussion. New theories were advanced by one or other of the boys, argued over sometimes for hours, then relegated to the limbo of dead and forgotten things. On the morning of the third day, however, while travelling over a rough section of country near the winding, interminable river, Dick was reminded again of the tracks. His own toes had worn through his moccasins. There was a hole about the size of a silver dollar in each one of his heels. In another day or so, he, too, would be walking barefoot, much as he dreaded to think of it, making those peculiar and tragic marks in the sand. He glanced over at Sandy’s moccasins and noted with a sinking of the heart that his were even in worse condition than his own. Toma’s were in better shape, but also very badly worn. Soon they must all endure the torture of going unshod, or else cut up their moosehide coats and make new footgear. None of the three wanted to part with his coat. The nights were often chilly and it would be a positive hardship to do without them. “I’d almost as soon go barefoot,” declared Sandy. “Yes, I know,” Dick’s face clouded, “but do you think we can endure these forced marches if our feet are cut and bruised? Mine are beginning to cause me untold suffering now. You, Sandy, are limping. No! Don’t try to deny it. I’ve been watching you. A few more bruises, a few more scratches and cuts, and we won’t be able to walk five miles a day. You may not have noticed it, but already we have begun to slacken down. I don’t believe we made more than eighteen miles yesterday. We put in the hours but we don’t seem to get the results. I’ll admit that it’s tough going through here, but we won’t find anything better until we reach the seventh portage.” “I know it,” sighed the other. “Yet I hate to part with my coat. Say—where in the dickens has Toma gone?” “I saw him around here only a few minutes ago,” Dick answered absent-mindedly, still absorbed with the pressing problem of footgear. “No, you didn’t,” his chum flatly contradicted. “He’s been away a long time now—over an hour, I’m sure. I’m beginning to worry about him.” “Probably away somewhere getting fish for breakfast,” Dick decided. “He’s done that already.” “You couldn’t lose that restless scamp if you tried, so stop worrying.” “I can’t help it,” grumbled Sandy. Dick suddenly sat up straight, the perplexed lines vanishing from his forehead. “Say, I’ll bet I know. He’s gone off to snare rabbits. He’s been complaining a lot lately about our fish diet. I recall now that when we were walking along together early this morning he informed me that at our next stop he intended to set out some snares.” “Don’t blame him one bit. I’m tired of this fish diet myself. Every time I wake up, I examine my body to see if I haven’t started to grow scales.” Dick laughed. “Fish are called brain-food, Sandy. Don’t forget that. By the time we reach Half Way House, we’ll all be very learned and wise.” “I much prefer to wallow along in ignorance,” Sandy retorted. “I hate fish. When we get home I never want to see another. Lately, about all I can think about is flapjacks and coffee and thick slices of white bread with a top covering of butter. Last night, or to be more exact, yesterday afternoon while I slept, I dreamed that Uncle Walter had just received one of those big plum puddings from England and that he made me a present of the whole of it.” Sandy paused to moisten his lips. “I never had such a vivid dream,” he went on. “At one sitting I ate the whole of it. It had dates and raisins in it, and currants and nuts, and there was a rich sauce that I kept pouring over it and—yum, yum—” “Stop! Stop!” Dick shouted, vainly trying to shut out the appetizing picture. “You can tell the rest of that some other time when I’m in a better condition to appreciate it.” “Well, if you won’t listen to me,” Sandy said aggrievedly, “I’m going to curl up here in the sun and go to sleep. Maybe I’ll dream about another plum pudding.” “Think I’ll roll in too,” said Dick, smiling at the idiom. Sans blankets or covering of any kind, even a coat, there was, of course, nothing to roll into. One simply stretched out in the sunshine, covered one’s face with a handkerchief to keep away the flies and fell away into deep slumber. He felt particularly tired today and decided that, as soon as Toma returned, he’d follow Sandy’s example. He lay back, his arms pillowed under his head, watching a few widely scattered fleecy clouds floating lazily along under the deep blue field of the sky. He did not hear the young Indian steal quietly into camp more than two hours later, having fallen asleep in spite of himself. But when he did recover consciousness, Toma was the first person his eyes lighted upon. The Indian was standing less than twenty feet away, his back toward him, and he was busily absorbed in feeding a freshly-kindled fire. Something unusual about the native boy’s appearance immediately attracted Dick’s attention. He saw what it was. Toma, apparently, had rolled up his moose-hide trousers and had gone wading for clams. From his ankles to his knees his legs were bare. “Did you get any clams, Toma?” Dick inquired sleepily. “How long have you been back? Why didn’t you wake me, Toma?” The young Indian answered none of Dick’s questions. However, he smiled somewhat sheepishly as he turned around and faced his chum. Then Dick gave utterance to a prolonged exclamation of genuine astonishment. His eyes widened perceptibly. He sat up very quickly, contemplating Toma as one might contemplate a man from Mars. “What in blue blazes have you done with the bottom of your pants?” gasped Dick. “I cut ’em off,” answered Toma, flushing. “Yes, I see you have—but why?” By way of explanation, and not without a touch of the Indian’s native dignity, he strode over to a pile of driftwood and fished out of it two new moccasins. Excellent work, Dick could see at a glance; moccasins of which anyone might have been proud. “Sew ’em all same like squaw,” said Toma. “But you had no needle.” “Make ’em needle out of stick,” came the prompt reply. “But what about the sinew, Toma? You had no thread. How could you sew without thread?” Toma hung his head. He hated to make this admission, but the truth must come out. Toma was always truthful. “I use part of fish-line,” he explained. “Part of the fish-line?” gurgled Dick. “Yes, I use ’em part of the fish-line.” “Well, I must admit that you made good use of it. There is really more than we require anyway. I’m glad for your sake, Toma. Who, beside yourself, would ever have thought of a stunt like that? They’ll come in mighty handy for you, of course, but won’t you feel cold, Toma? When the winds are chilly I’m afraid you’ll suffer.” Toma shook his head, bit his lips and stared very hard at some imaginary object across the river. It was plain that he was keenly embarrassed and quite at a loss to know what to say. Finally, he found the words that he had been vainly striving for and quickly blurted them out: “Dick, I no can stand it any longer to see Sandy all time limp. Mebbe two, three more days Sandy sit down and feet swollen so bad not walk any farther.” He gulped, averted his eyes, then tossed the result of his handiwork over at the sleeper’s side. Dick took in the little tableau, feeling suddenly very sick and mean and miserable and selfish. He did not try to hide the tears that came into his eyes. Through a sort of mist he saw Sandy’s blurred form stretched out there on the sand. Then he glanced at Toma, who looked very ludicrous and silly standing there in his abbreviated trousers, the cool night wind blowing over his bare legs. At that instant there popped into his mind the sarcastic utterance of one Toby McCallum: “Breeds don’t count!” |
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